


hymn for the aftermath

by ephedilia



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephedilia/pseuds/ephedilia
Summary: There’s still a familiarity, Ritsuka admits, in saving the world. Whether as a human or a Heroic Spirit—it changes nothing. She doesn’t know if the breaking point will come, and she can no longer deny that there’s something in this Grail War that reminds her of the past.(In middle of it, RulermeetsAvenger again.)





	1. hourglass

_Wake up._

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Everything screams despair.

From the corners of every stone roof to the tips of the fallen trees, an unsettling void passes through. She remains untouched—the axis of time doesn’t brush her; instead, it brings her nostalgia. The smell of decay is another story; she’s grown used to it far too many times. Walking alongside death is the magus’ path. Perhaps if she had followed it, her existence would be the opposite.

The night is chill and unbearable when she materializes into thin air. People avoid each other’s eyes, tucked into their own world, and she wishes she envied them. Unrecognizable or not, the town brims with life, regardless of the overcharged mana in the atmosphere. Taking a deep breath, she inhales, and her suspicions are confirmed. It matters not when affinities are sensed: magus can tell immediately, and heroic spirits don’t follow back.

A part of her is nonplussed. Someone could say things like: “This will always happen. Humanity has proven to be more of an inconvenience than useful.” It doesn’t mean she has to like it. Of course, herself, out of anyone, is aware. But another part of her is furious. Things like this will always brim her with anger. She can’t remember if the singularities caused her to experience this.

All she knows is bringing innocents is a crime against the rules of the Holy Grail War.

Her steps are firm, as she walks towards an alley, her eyes meeting the blood in the walls.

“Let’s see what happened here,” Fujimaru Ritsuka mutters.

 

* * *

 

“The preparations are ready.”

Ciel rises from the floor, finishing her prayer. A swift glance is thrown at the Church’s structure, the paintings, and the vacant seats. The current sight tells nothing. Aside of the pamphlets left behind, it signals the session has been over for hours.

Even the townsfolk had begun sensing the shift. Every so often, their eyes would dart around, questioning the peace, chalking it up to useless superstitions. Yet, the number of visitors to the chapel had increased, trying to seek refuge in any consolations her colleagues had. Their nervousness, palpable despite their best efforts, their shriek at the slightest noise, makes Ciel pity them.

“Very well,” Ciel says, turning around to face her colleagues. “Any words from the Association?”

“No, madam.”

Ciel narrows her eyes. “The deadline is after tomorrow.” She hopes they know her irritation isn’t directed at them, just at the stuck-up nobles and their traditions.

In the back, the door squeaks, announcing the entrance of someone. A young girl with white hair steps in, the uniform’s sleeves showing her bandages.

“It can’t be helped. They’re planning ways on how to betray the Church and the supervisor,” Caren Ortensia says.

Ciel blinks. From the corner of her eye, she finds her colleagues appalled at the casual tone. It’d be hilarious if the circumstances were different; the blunt tongue suits her acquaintance. “Caren, I’m surprised you remained this long.”

“My plane will be here in three hours. I came to say a final goodbye,” Caren replies, placing her bored eyes on the crowd. “What are you doing? Go and press for answers.”

Everyone minus her and Caren scrambles around, their steps echoing in the now empty chapel.

“Thanks,” Ciel says, and means it.

“You’re welcome.” Caren says, peering at her.

Questions pile up in her yellow eyes, and Ciel smiles ruefully, wishing she had packed some curry and bread for a dinner snack. The night will be long. It is tiring already; one or two hours of uninterrupted sleep will be bliss.

“You changed your mind?”

“No, I wanted to see this place before everything goes down.”

Ciel sighs, feeling a migraine. “Yes, the reparations are nothing I’m looking forward to.”

“My grandfather died on the job,” Caren muses, indifferently. “It’s a shame, casualties of that kind are more difficult to compensate.”

Ciel takes several internal deep breaths. She’d hated it at first, a long time ago, how her superiors had brushed the ritual as fake but necessary. They had to join, impose their authority, no matter if it was hypocritical. _I wonder how Tohno-kun is doing. Better than me, I hope._ The thought forms without warning. _Who am I kidding? Of course not, he’s dying—_ Ciel halts the rest, suppressing the sorrow.

She turns her gaze up to meet Caren’s. “Are you hungry?”

Caren’s eyes twinkle, her smile showing a rare softness. “Your treat?”

Ciel smiles in spite of herself. “Only for tonight.”

 

* * *

 

The rain had begun sometime after the luggage had been delivered to their suit.

A bad omen, perhaps. Or nature was trying to wipe away any future impurities when it had no opportunity later. Luvia doesn’t care. She’s here to prove her superiority, restore her family’s humiliation in the Third War, triumph and return with satisfaction to the Clock Tower. Inconvenient or not, the weather has given her an excuse to avoid the Overseer.

The challenge is avoiding them, Luvia acknowledges.

“Thinking of something interesting, my Master?”

Her heels hit the floor harshly as she turns around.

A chuckle. The sound dares her to raise an eyebrow at the man sitting pleased on the couch. Their gazes meet, the man’s glasses dropping an inch from his nose. Instantly, one of his gloved hands lift to adjust the spectacles. The simple action is unrushed. Uncaring, as if the rain from outside is a daily thing. For him, she supposes, it is not. Luvia questions him with her other raised eyebrow.

“Maybe. What about yourself?”

His mouth lifts up into a charming smile. “It seems the murder rate has increased since three days ago,” her Servant announces.

Luvia looks at the local newspaper on his lap. A free copy from the main lobby, she recognizes.

“How barbaric.”

“What did you expect, my lady?” He sends her a flashing smile. “A good mystery is one that builds up until the public is ready for the villain.”

“Perhaps.” Luvia concedes. “It’s still against my methods to drop so low, and elegance has nothing to do with it.”

From the corner of the room, a wriggle sound interrupts them. Luvia walks evenly to the instrument, taking away the paper as soon as it finishes scribbling. Her eyes go back and forth, skimming the formalities, until her eyes catch the hidden message.

“Archer.”

“Oh? Letter from the Church?”

Luvia sends him a pleased smile. “My informant says the seventh Master hasn’t registered yet.”

It’s pure silence, the only sound coming from Archer's throat before he bursts into full laughter. He doesn’t stop, the eyes from behind his glasses glinting.

“When all the cards are drawn, things will become interesting!”

Luvia heads back to the other side of the room. The air-conditioning is turned off, Archer’s low chuckles and the thunder from the skies filling the silence.

 

* * *

 

She’s been here before.

Not in this place, per se. The sentiment of walking among horror is familiar.

The corpses never flinch. Any survivors had long succumbed to their wounds. How many civils were dragged, Ritsuka can’t tell. They all lie around, splattered, motionless. Her hand presses against the wall, trying to concentrate, attempting to see the last moments of the victims. Her head throbs, the sounds getting louder, messier, before she allows everything to flow.

The child screams again, _I can’t feel them, I can’t feel my legs_ , and someone snaps their muscles, pressing until all heard left is pained cries. Torn apart flesh—the sound is horrendous in the middle of the pleas. Ritsuka forces her eyes to see it all: this is her job, she has to bear with all the injustice and cruelty. But her eyes sting, her nails dig harder into her own skin, and her whole body trembles in sheer rage.

It’s like an eternity before she recognizes her surroundings again. The memories are rough, scratchy, a black-white movie of poor quality, not enough evidence for her to point the culprit.

When Ritsuka opens her eyes to confront reality, the asphalt and cement greet her. Dry blood stains the alley, and in front of the sight are fingers, necks, arms; every of them tossed aside, forgotten like a second-rated meal. She counts to three, blocking the noises from driving her insane, and still, she feels the leftovers. The hushed, hurried voices: _stop, please, stop—no, I beg you, god—no, no!_

A hand touches one of the nearest heads. Something is odd, the neck’s skin is too dry. The bodies are empty, not a single drop of blood in them. Ritsuka leans down, and gingerly closes the eyelids, engraving the sight as a reminder. Immediately, a drop of water brushes her cheek, and as she raises her eyes, the grey clouds seem to roar. A storm is coming, Ritsuka foretells.

She decides to stand there, opening up her umbrella, the rain washing over, sluggish and cold.

 

* * *

 

The inhuman girl prayed to God.

She’s already died countless times, in many different, endless ways, too difficult to imagine. She wished to die, not be brought back, not in the usual way. But it was appearing the choice for anything else would never come.

(She wanted to die. She wanted to die. She wanted, more than anything else, this and yet—!)

Her prayer is interrupted.

Light and wind fill the chapel. A red umbrella opens. With a swift jump, the inhuman girl leaps backwards, a black key ready. She looks up. A young girl stands in front of her, her orange hair shining through the Church’s windows.

“I am the Ruler-class servant, Fujimaru Ritsuka," Servant Ruler says, “I ask you, are you the Overseer?”

_Welcome to the Holy Grail War._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s it, a self-indulgent au!
> 
> i was doubting whether to publish this or not, but i’m already too immersed in this idea and it’ll be a waste to leave it alone on my wip folder. for reference, ritsuka wears [this](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/fategrandorder/images/2/25/Gainenreisou_04_jdbrg.png/revision/latest?cb=20180418162334).
> 
> major spoilers from fgo act 1 will be hinted but nothing else. thanks for reading!


	2. ground zero

The rain continued after school was over.

Except the rain always started before breakfast. Ritsuka looks quickly to the grey skies before opening her umbrella. Her friends had told her goodbye earlier, talked about their plans and offer to go to the shopping district, but she had declined; it was her turn for cleaning duty. Besides, she had appreciated the silence of the empty hallway. Rushing to her house was a no-no.

It’s half-tempting to put her earbuds on and forget about it as she walks through the crowd in silence. The days are fickle; they pass too quickly, and everyone has either decided what they will do after graduation or, like her, they’re alright with spending their last year peacefully before exams.

It’s not like she’s unhappy with the routine, but when it comes to her future, Ritsuka imagines an ordinary life.

Sometimes, she asks herself if living like this is enough. Her aunt insists it’s better to save up money than have none, before blowing up one of her jewels when she gets distracted. Her mother’s firm when checking up her grades, smiling gently when everything dictates her studies are doing good. And her father, he seems to understand growing up is more than average grades.

The train station looms tall and gray in the mist, bursting from people. Around her, the place is fuller, livier, but nobody stops rushing. The chatter is lulling in an odd sense, Ritsuka thinks. She had tried hard to not fall asleep back in class and a nap wouldn’t hurt. She swipes her pass, contemplating the idea.

The train rolls in right on time.

Ritsuka finds a seat and presses her back firmly to keep herself awake. Homework is painful, but it’s better to finish it earlier than laze around. Unlike her aunt, she had no privilege on being a freeloader. Every fantasy author would throw a fit if they saw Rin: a real magus (a prodigy, apparently) criticizing the high prices of beer and cursing about fake priests and their influence on her cooking.

Bit by bit, more passengers get in. Sleepy complaints about exams and charts float over her head as Ritsuka stares out the window, the city looking ephemeral in middle of the lukewarm rain. Like it’s about to be swallowed by something.

The train begins moving.

Suddenly, her shoulders stiffen. It’s like someone had brushed her.

Ritsuka forces herself to breathe. She hates it, the flight-and-run instinct, but she can’t do anything. Except scream. Only scream. But she knows making a fuss in middle of the train, without clue of who is following her, will be useless. And still. Still. She takes another quick breath when the train starts slowing down. Her hand tries to smooth her skirt, attempting to look nonchalant.

The doors open.

She runs into the rain. Her drenched clothes cling to her skin, the chill soaking straight through her bones. Desperately, she thinks about the late spring heat, the prior winter’s hot pot, the frying oil of her family’s kitchen.

Her feet never stop, not for a single second. As soon as her house appears, her arms move on their own.

Ritsuka pushes the door quickly, gasping. Her ears ring, her heart almost ready to get out of her ribcage. She can’t think straight, too afraid to look into the night, self-conscious of her wet uniform.

“Ritsuka?” Her aunt says, from the hall.

Everything's so clear and quiet, as if nothing has happened and until this point her life has been an illusion. It’s like watching a silent film. Rin’s movements are fast; any traces of her common laziness gone and replaced with the coldest glare. Ritsuka flinches, her flight-and-run instinct telling her again to get away.

Behind her, a stranger stays in their doorstep.

“Get out of our house,” Rin threatens. Her finger doesn’t move an inch. “You’ve five seconds to explain why you were following my niece, or I'll burn you down.”

The stranger bows. “My apologies. I thought this was a civilian’s home.” Ritsuka gets closer to Rin, self-conscious of the person’s stare. A cold feeling settles in her stomach. “But I see this a magus’ family.”

“Words are cheap. Talk. Now.”

Rin holds her stare. For a moment, Ritsuka wants to tell her to stop and close the door, but then the stranger nods in surrender, a gleeful look in their eyes.

“Congratulations! Your niece is qualified to join our organization.”

 

* * *

 

Enraged.

That’s what Olga Marie Animusphere is feeling.

The heir of a Magus family has a duty. Her entire reason for seeking the Holy Grail is for that purpose.

Her family lacks favor and respect among the houses of the Clock Tower. Years ago, her father had planned to participate in the Holy Grail War in Fuyuki, but his seat had been taken away when the Archibalds had been selected. It was for the better, he had told her, when the only survivor of the War had informed them the Magus Killer had been under Einzbern’s contract.

After a whole series of circumstances, the Grail had been relocated, closer to the Church and the Mage Association’s watch. It proved to be more suitable... or it had been thought until a few minutes ago. Olga’s no fool, her skepticism reminds her. The ritual in Fuyuki had been treated like a pastime. It’s an Eastern ritual, discovered in the Third Holy War, the high number of victims had allowed the Church a perfect excuse to bring their authority.

Olga remembers it all well. Her father’s struggles to gather the funds for their observatory, his half-vacant stare, his unfinished theory, the last days before his death. His research had been half-baked, but she’ll be damned if failure becomes an option.

“Don’t mess with me.” Her grip on the telephone tightens. “What do you mean a Ruler-class servant was summoned?”

“Master.” A male voice echoes from the hall.

“I’ll talk to you later.” Still annoyed, Olga puts down the phone, giving her servant a quick glance. She has little to care about politeness, except her emotions are ready to burst out from the sheer rage of the situation. “Yes, what is it, Saber?”

Saber bows, his cape fluttering. “Forgive my intrusion.”

Sir Bedivere of Camelot. A fairly tall man whose armor meant business, fitting for the light colors. A member of the Knights of the Round, Olga recognizes his power is unparalleled to his fellow comrades. Her miscalculation is his empathy; she’s aware the chances of pulling another Heroic Spirit from King Arthur’s era are slim, but knights are troublesome. Emotions and chivalry are a hindrance.

“Don’t interrupt me again.”

“I apologize. It will not happen another time, Master.”

Without a word, Olga narrows her eyes. Last minute preparations had been finished, and now this had happened. After the discussion over the phone, she’s exhausted, a headache is surely forming, ready to bother her for the rest of the day.

“Very well. I assume you’re curious about what happened.” Her mouth pulls a grimace. “Apparently, the Overseer was given a visit by Ruler. She has decided to remain in her position but has declared the judge will be the Servant.”

“Ruler? But that’s—”

“Yes, the Holy Grail War isn’t known for getting Rulers involved. Nobody in the Association understands why this time—”

Her eyes burn as she wills herself to stop the tears of frustration. Olga doesn’t remember any similar rage; she’s never held a grudge of this magnitude against her fellow magi. Curling her hands into fists, the temptation to curse, shout, and swear is nearly certain.

It’s only the thought of showing weakness that stops her. Her Servant’s worried expression is enough reason. It’s getting on her nerves.

“Are you for sure? If I remember correctly, the Ruler-class is neutral.” Saber argues, his tone polite.

Olga shakes in anger. “It doesn’t matter. If Ruler doesn’t deem you worthy, they will never allow the Grail to be taken away.”

 

* * *

 

Ciel sighs.

Yesterday, everything had been going according to plan. Her colleagues had gathered the information on all the Master’s participating, or the available candidates, at least. The one blank spot was still empty and it concerned her, but the new matter was more troubling. Six of the seven Servants had been summoned, the War was almost one step to officially start.

Still—apart from all the good results and what Ciel had expected from the competitors, the one fact that had appeared last night had thrown her to overwork until dawn.

She should have known. She should have known nothing ever goes as planned. Her final mission as a personal affair had taught her this, along with other unpleasant stuff. It was still a difficult situation to grasp, and Ciel wanted nothing else but to believe this was a dream. She would wake up to assignments from the Church and move on to another location. Hunt heretics, obey the commands of her superiors, and forget about the few days of careless happiness she had.

Fujimaru Ritsuka, the apparent Ruler.

It makes no sense. But the one proof of last night’s revelation, the Command Seals in the girl’s back— It had been no illusion. Heroic Spirits, as far as Ciel is concerned, lack the ability to bind over fellow Servants. She’s no amateur, the possibility of an impostor had crossed her mind; the Caster Servant had been summoned weeks ago. However, the presence she had encountered had been different.

The more disturbing question. Why? Why had Ruler, a girl who seemed to be no older than 19 years old, been summoned, and why had she, up until this point, never come into contact with the Church? It’s one thing to exclude yourself from the Holy Grail War, but for the overseer, it’s impossible.

Her eyes stray towards the Chapel.

_The Ruler-class doesn’t have wishes._

Impartiality.

Of course. It deems them a functional judge, far more than the Church’s pretense. Caren had reflected over her grandfather’s death, but those with higher rank had known. Aiding Tohsaka Tokiomi had ruined all attempts of being fair, and without any of the three main families of the ritual, Ciel wonders if this is unexpected at all.

When Ciel remembers last night, Ruler had been anything but hostile. In retrospect, the only hostility had been when she had spoken about the murderers, and it was undeniable the anger had been towards the perpetrator. Ciel doesn’t know if that thought eases her from the responsibility in her shoulders. This is her job, and the War has still not started, but there are already victims. Ruler could have pointed at her and claimed it was her fault this was happening.

Instead, Ruler had said, with accusing eyes and a calm, firm posture. _Civilians have been dragged into it already._

It’s too early to predict how this fares in the war.

Whether she’s an ally or a fellow companion to exchange information, it remains a mystery.

Ciel only knows—

It’s better to remain polite.

She represents an unplanned factor. She isn’t meant to be part of the War, or more like, she is a sign from the Grail to involve another entity, regardless of what’s expected. Her colleagues had brought all the papers for Ciel to understand. Ruler is easily a dangerous individual when they’re against the participants and their ambitions.

Perhaps she would leave most of the Masters alone, but it’s a desilusion. The more Ciel thinks about it, the more it seems as Ruler will mess up the expectations.

Since leaving Japan, Ciel is hesitant. Not afraid, not worried, not anxious. It’s entirely different dealing with personal affairs than her job. She’s trained to fight dead Apostles, prevent any innocent bystanders from being killed. Her temporary business had softened her. Months ago, she would have determined what to do and how to confront it.

An Executor had to be ruthless and quick-minded, traits Ciel started to doubt she qualified anymore. Choosing to be the overseer for this ritual had been an attempt to remember her place. Or her abnormality in the world.

“Please, give me a break,” Ciel whispers.

The Chapel says nothing back.

 

* * *

 

_“We’ve arrived. It’ll be about—”_

Outside, the rain goes on. Under the streetlights, it’s difficult to ignore the wet streets. Bazett steps carefully out of the taxi, opening up her umbrella, walking without any rush to the building’s interior. Despite the aged walls, the Clock Tower is as mighty as it looks for tourists.

She hears people, likely students running towards their classes, and concentrates until she arrives to the office. There’s no time for her to fantasize or get distracted, her train had arrived on schedule. Barely, Bazett admits. She had had enough hours to prepare herself, or that’s what she likes to believe. Her guts had disagreed.

A knock. Then, another.

“Fraga McRemitz, reporting.”

The answer is quick. “Come in.”

Formalities are a protocol, but Bazett notices her superior doesn’t bother about them today. Once inside, it’s all business. “I assume you read the documents I sent you?”

Straight to the point.

“Yes. I’ve already reserved my flight for tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” Her superior places down a briefcase on the table. “You’ll take this with you.”

“Excuse me.” She doesn’t need to imagine what’s inside, it’s easy to guess. “But I’m sure I sent a letter regarding my decision.”

Her superior replies. “We’re aware of your original choice. And we’ll agree under other circumstances, your catalyst would be perfect.”

It’s nothing personal, Bazett reminds herself. The disappointment dwells on her stomach, before she pushes it away.

“It’s a gift we received from one of our sponsors.” A click. “From France.”

Bazett nods. “I see. Then, may I?”

At the affirmation, she reaches out, passes her fingers around the scale’s surface, and marvels. It’s smooth. On closer inspection, it looked less than a dragon scale and something else, but her studies had never finished any theories about Phantasmal Species.

Closing the briefcase, Bazett turns to face her superior.

A nod. Then, “Good luck, Fraga.”

 

* * *

 

The rain continues throughout the day, a cold drizzle over Amersfoort.

Sometimes, Ritsuka wonders if the world is playing a cosmic joke on her. Of course, she knows the answer. She had no complaints; in a logical, twisted sense, Modern Spirits are rare and, less of all, they’re unknown. Any qualifications for other Classes are nonexistent, but if her memory is reliable, it’s better than being thrown on an unfitting role by the Grail.

Maybe.

A big maybe: there’s probably a counterpart of her in the Avenger-class.

No. _Really._

That old man would find it hilarious. Or interesting. Both, Ritsuka ends up deciding. His sense of humor makes almost no sense to anyone with brains, but she speculates his centuries of wandering through parallel worlds had been a way of distract himself. Pranks distract from the tendium.

It’s only that the Kaleidoscope is the most infamous example.

“Still, that doesn’t have anything to do with me,” she mutters.

Not anymore.

From the rooftop, her attention goes everywhere. People walk on the streets, their silhouettes sticking out against the streetlights, ducking at certain places. Some run to seek shelter, others take their time, relieved with their umbrellas. Ritsuka looks over them.

It’s a nostalgic reminder that she still loves the world with a wideness disproportionate to her heart.

Peace is undervalued. It’s the little things that count, the temporary lapses of quietude that slip in and out of her thoughts, the emotions binded on them. Or in times like this, Ritsuka acknowledges, the wish for the ordinary happiness. Years have passed, but humans always catch her attention. All kinds of feelings happen around them.

Except for one. Rage is the only emotion she doesn't allow herself to dwell into. It had never been a particular favorite when alive. It’s less in this afterlife.

“That’s right. I can’t complain,” Ritsuka whispers. She glances around, invisible in her lonesome, her eyes searching for clues.

Now.

It’s a matter of _when_ more than it’s a matter of if.

 

* * *

 

“Hey! Professor!”

Flat walks into his office, cheerful and oblivious as usual.

He only retreats some steps, smile intact, to El-Melloi II’s annoyance. Anyone would believe it’s from fear at his scolding, but Waver sighs at Flat’s insistence to keep the door open. Less than thirty seconds later, his other student comes rushing from the hall. The stock of papers looks heavy, Waver acknowledges, dismissing his concern. Exercise is good at their age.

“I told you to wait!” Caules groans. He stops immediately, blinking. “Huh... thanks."

Flat cats him a bright smile.

“You’re welcome!”

Waver coughs, loudly. Unlike his students, most people don't have the privilege of breaks, only more workload.

Before he speaks up, a lecture ready on his tongue, Caules hurries and sets the papers on the nearest table. Near him, Flat hums merrily, doing nothing to help, his only action being his longing stare. The routine is usual. Waver tries to enjoy the little minutes of peace, preparing himself for class and sudden meetings with other lords. Uninvited, his special students appear and his office goes from silent to buzzling with noise.

He has complaints.

The least harmful: Flat’s personality is troublesome and it only sorts out around Caules.

The most prominent: Waver’s already tired being an unwilling third-wheel. Or witnessing what anyone with a brain could see from miles away.

Teaching has helped him to search all kinds of solutions. He’s aware he could do something and ask Gray for assistance. She’ll have more patience in this than him. Except his tolerance has ran dry; his break and mood are done for today.

“ _Flat Escardos._ ”

Flat turns off his daydreaming. “Ye-Yeah? Professor?”

“Unless you’re being paid to do absolutely nothing, go and grab a book.” _Before I kick you out_ , is unspoken.

It doesn’t deter Flat. Instead, he chirps back.

“Can’t we say hello our favorite teacher?”

El-Melloi II rubs his forehead. “Don’t use that as excuse. If you’re here, try to finish your paper for the next week.”

“Oh! Right! I just had a question for my research!”

El-Melloi II rolls his eyes. “I had figured.”

Flat starts talking, his eyes shining when he mentions his atomic batteries. Against his better judgement, Waver relaxes, almost forgetting his earlier need for a smoke.

“That reminds me, sir.” Caules interrupts, pulling a letter from the pile of papers. “This only arrived ten minutes ago.”

Waver raises an inquiring eyebrow and opens it up, his eyes landing on the printed words quickly.

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

His blood runs cold.

It doesn’t come to his attention until it’s too late. Caules has retrieved the letter.

“Due to the involvement of a Ruler in the Heaven’s Feel ritual, I, the overseer of the Holy Grail War, inform the participants of this new development,” Caules reads. He keeps on, until his confusion turns into horror.

Waver wills himself to breathe slowly through his nose.

“Wa-Wait, this means—”

_All your work will be for nothing._

He remembers, every single detail from then. Rider’s speeches, from carefree to serious; the ridiculous, goofy smile contrasting the solemn look of their last night. The horror of the war. To this day, Waver acknowledges, his narrow worldview had crashed down. It’s been years, and he still doesn’t forget.

When he comes back, his hands are trembling, and a wave of nausea rushes over him. The floor is disappearing under his feet has to be an illusion, but it feels far too real.

“Professor?” Flat’s concern shows, any traces of his cheerfulness gone. “Do you want some water?”

“No,” Waver replies. He shakes his head, trying to fight the lump on his throat. “I… I’ll be fine. Thank you, Escardos.”

Caules hesitates. “You sure, sir?”

 _I need to be_ , Waver wants to say, but his mouth tastes horrible. Caules seems to understand; nodding at him, his eyes filled with worry. Before the silence continues, Waver stands up from his desk, picking up his phone. He dials the number fast, as he walks across the room.

“My office will be closed for the rest of the day.”

His students share a look. Waver doesn’t miss the worry in their eyes, and for a second, he wants to tell them it’s nothing. Except he can’t lie to them, they’re his students. They deserve better than sugar-coated words.

“Call Reines, tell her I have an urgent meeting.”

 

* * *

 

“Madame.”

Ciel turns away from the Chapel. “Have all the Masters sent their answers?”

“Half of them.” A beat of silence. “Some are still missing.”

An unreadable look passes through Ciel’s face. “Then, they’ve no right to complain later.”

_From now on, Ruler’s job was to deal with them._

 

* * *

 

_Uu..._

_Uu…_

_Uuu…_

What is that noise?

A fly? Is it a fly? Or something else?

The area is humid. From her point, it’s absurd since the majority of districts are freezing, the rain from early morning had been chill. Any hints of summer will only appear in months. Ritsuka narrows her eyes. There’s no need to complicate things. Solutions should be simple; after all, where have riddles and cryptic actions ever gotten her? Her footsteps halt.

Silence befalls the alley.

In the darkness, Ruler finds her fingers ready to grasp the shadows. Her heart, that girl’s heart, longs for that familiarity, almost questioning when will home return.

If cold winds are enough to send a shiver down the spines of the tired, she's no exception. Her humanity clings, painfully, attempting to soothe her, telling her to breathe. Even now she can sense it, trying to find relief in anything that pushes away the burden of responsibility.

“I’m an idiot...” she exhales. _I can’t return anymore._

Eyes closed, she reaches for her umbrella and jabs it into the air. _Swish_. The animal growls, a pitiful sound, its claws retreating.

“I don’t appreciate being watched.”

Without wait, her hands thrust the handle deeper, spinning the creature before throwing it against the corner. For a moment, the only sound is a whimper, followed by few more. Bull’s eye. Opening her eyes, she sees nothing, but the air is charged.

Familiars.

Not first rate, nor they belonged to a magus—the magical residue felt too distinct. If she knew no better, Ritsuka admits, she would admit the mana is nearly recognizable. Mid-thought, her foot lifts up, swatting another mutt away.

She doesn’t turn around.

Whoever is behind this is smart—or, they liked to attack from the shadows. It’s a good strategy and Ritsuka gives them credit for the effort. The one advantage of being born in the Modern Era is being self-aware of her lack of honor. It helps so far, until it becomes an obstacle.

“Still irritating,” she mutters.

A glance to her side, she sees them. More animals around the corner.

No nearby escape. None without affecting civilians.

Out of a ten score, Ritsuka decides to offer them half. Playing Ruler’s neutrality against the Servant in question is nothing short, but she’s already slightly ticked off. Being followed since the morning had been getting on her nerves. Even when alive, her experience had become less haunting with the years. The annoyance was hard to forget.

She blamed her familiarity with some people. They had taken away her ability to get scared with ease.

The question remains.

What could she do before everyone in the area was woken up?

The usual.

Her umbrella finds its way to her fingers.

She’s swift on her feet. The mutts freeze, probably sensing the shift in the air. Her mouth morphs into something off, steps loud enough against the concrete, before she charges on.

 

* * *

 

“Our little missy is ruthless,” a man says. He throws what’s left of the beer on his mouth, laughing loudly. "Sentimentality will never work for her. Saints are not human. Didn’t I tell you?"

“It is.” Disinterested, the other man pours wine. “Keep working, or I’ll cut your budget.”

“Bah. You’re being delusional, I’m ready for my break.”

 

* * *

 

Dawn peaks up from the grey skies.

Ruler steals a glance at the clouds, her umbrella sheltering her from the rain. The park is empty, abandoned at these hours. Compared to yesterday, the tree branches are now damp with wet leaves, casting the place in an ethereal glow.

It doesn’t change anything.

But for now—it’s more than enough. She’ll visit the Overseer again, soon.

Under her feet, the damp grass is wet with blood.

 

* * *

 

Sajyou Ayaka jerks awake.

Nothing greets her, except her neighbour’s loud music and the street cars. Yawning, she catches a glimpses to her clock.

Three in the morning.

Pulling her blankets up, she groans. “Too early.”

It takes less than a minute for her to fall asleep despite her thin walls being unable to block the noise. Instead, to her annoyance, it’s something else that tries to keep her awake. She dismisses it, placing a mental note to grab a band-aid later.

For some reason, her hand burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of the stuff is finally happening!
> 
> next chapter is still a wip but for questions & stuff, you can ask them here. i won’t spoil This Mess but i’ll help clarify. don’t worry, the chuunin nerd is showing up soon.
> 
> thank you a lot for your support!!


End file.
